


Into the Sky

by PhoenixGryffin



Category: Hedda Gabler - Ibsen
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Gen, Pre-Canon, Sexism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 21:31:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5514062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixGryffin/pseuds/PhoenixGryffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’d had the misfortune of growing up in one of the few backwards sectors of the galaxy, one where women were expected to bear children and nothing more.</p><p>(<i>Hedda Gabler</i> pre-canon, space AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zeldadestry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldadestry/gifts).



The party is dreadful; of course, most parties are these days. Hedda’s noticed the glances—she’s been glanced at ever since she was a child, yes, but the meaning behind the glances has changed. Once upon a time, the party guests had looked at her with envy, longing, admiration; not only had she been (and still is) beautiful, but she’s the only child of the respected and admired general. However, now there’s mostly pity in their gazes.

After all, not only is the respected and admired general-father dead, but she’s a woman fast approaching thirty, and she still hasn’t taken steps toward maintaining the ideal population quota. Of course, it’s not _mandatory_ , not technically; Sector 1890 would _never_ want its inhabitants to feel like they were being pressured into anything they didn’t want to do. Or so they say. But there’s always been pressure to conform, to be normal, and Hedda’s never liked to stand out. Not in _this_ way, at least.

Before long, everyone will look down on her, saying things like _it’s such a shame she was abnormal_. If she doesn’t conform, give in to what the sector wants from her, she’ll be trapped in a lower social sphere forever, dooming herself to a life of poverty and no friends; better to _die_ than live that sort of life.

“Hello? Hedda Gabler?” says a tremulous voice behind her. Hedda whirls around—it’s that blonde scholar she’d last met a couple of weeks ago, and he looks rather anxious. She hadn’t bothered to remember his name.

“Yes?” she says, drawing herself to her full height; she’s still not as tall as him, but it’s something, at any rate.

“Oh—well, it’s nothing really,” says the scholar, wringing his hands. “I just was—was wondering how you were. Uh?”

“Fine,” says Hedda, mentally cursing herself for forgetting his name. “In fact, you could say I’m doing well.” It’s a blatant lie, but he doesn’t have to know that. “And you?”

“I’m rather well myself,” says the scholar, visibly brightening. “I think I’ve made real progress—there’s a certain particle I’d never been able to identify until now.”

“Particle?”

“Oh—it’s of—I guess you could say it’s cosmic dust, what I study. It’s my special field.”

“Cosmic dust,” repeats Hedda. He studies cosmic dust. It’s not too ridiculous of a profession, not at all. There’s every chance he could majorly succeed someday and become one of the largest names in—well, whatever the study of cosmic dust is called.

After the party’s over, she goes home, searches “cosmic dust studies” in the Sector 1890 Human Database. It doesn’t take long to find the blonde scholar; his name’s Tesman. George Tesman.

He seems like a suitable individual, and there's nothing absolutely strange about him, not really. The study of cosmic dust is certainly respectable.

* * *

She’d had the misfortune of growing up in one of the few backwards sectors of the galaxy, one where women were expected to bear children and nothing more.

“Population shortage,” the respected and admired general-father had said, shrugging nonchalantly as he’d returned from another trip back from the front lines of the intergalactic war he was participating in at the time (she could never remember which one; there was always _something_ happening). “Sector 1890’s always been a bit behind the times, I suppose.”

“But that just isn’t _fair_ ,” Hedda had complained; she’d been very young then, unaware of the way Sector 1890’s government worked. “Let’s move somewhere else.”

“Darling,” the respected and admired general-father had laughed, “that would be considered scandalous. No part of the galaxy would have _anything_ to do with us. It’s best we stay in our assigned sector.”

She hadn’t responded. To respond would have meant to argue, and one simply did not _argue_ with the respected and admired general-father.

* * *

At the next party, she sees George Tesman, the cosmic dust scholar.

“George Tesman,” says Hedda, and he visibly brightens upon hearing the sound of his name from her lips.

“H—hello,” he says. “How are you? Uh?”

“Fine,” replies Hedda, lying again. They converse throughout the rest of the party. Tesman is horrible at small talk; he’s completely different from another scholar she’d known once, back when the respected and admired general-father had still been alive. Maybe that’s for the best, though.

After the party’s over, he offers to give her a ride home in his spacecraft; she agrees. Once upon a time, there had been men queueing up to give her rides, jostling each other to be the first in line to talk to her. That’s all changed, though; most of her former admirers have either married or turned to the pursuit of younger beauties, and now she’s left with only the cosmic dust scholar. Still, Hedda supposes he’s better than nothing.

If things had been her way, she’d have had her own spacecraft, a sleek grey starship; it would have been the fastest in the galaxy, and she’d have been able to travel wherever she pleased, _finally_ free at last. But Sector 1890 has always frowned upon the idea of women piloting and owning their own spacecrafts, and she _certainly_ doesn’t want to become a deviant in the eyes of the sector’s residents.

Tesman babbles about his ship as she boards; it’s called the _Rina_ , after his sickly mother or aunt or grandmother. One of the three. Hedda isn’t listening closely; if she’s perfectly honest with herself, she couldn’t care less about his trivial worries. After quickly surveying the interior (not _too_ shabby, but the place looks like it was decorated by an old spinster with a complete lack of knowledge about interior design), she sits down, stares out the window as the ship lifts off into the darkness of space.

“Hedda?”

The stars outside are blazing, twinkling. Space is beautiful, as always; it's magnificent, and she's trapped _here_ , in this miserable ship, in this miserable sector, able only to look and not partake in any of the adventures the galaxy has to offer.

“Hedda?”

It’s not  _fair_.

“Hedda?”

“Mm?” she says, realizing with alarm that Tesman’s been repeating her name with increasing loudness. Perhaps he thinks she’s hard of hearing, and perhaps he’ll discuss it with his friends, and then people will _talk_ and she couldn’t _bear_ that—

No, no, she’s being ridiculous. For one, Tesman doesn’t even _have_ friends.

“I—well—” he begins, and Hedda realizes he’s trying to _start a conversation_ again, the fool. “Ah—” He breaks off, and she feels a stab of pity for him. At least the man’s _trying_.

“You know,” says Hedda casually, gesturing out the window at random, “I’ve always loved that planet.”

“Which one?” asks Tesman, slowing down. “Falk-78?”

“Yes,” lies Hedda—she has no idea what it’s actually called, no idea what she’s talking about—all she wants to do is alleviate the uncomfortable silence between Tesman and herself. “I think that planet’s absolutely marvelous, don’t you?”

“You won’t believe it,” says Tesman, eyes still on the monitor in front of him but words pouring out in a rush, “but I’ve always thought that as well! Uh?”

“What a coincidence,” replies Hedda. Tesman looks away from the monitor, glances at Hedda; the ship swerves drastically to the left, nearly catapulting the two of them off of their chairs. “Maybe,” says Hedda, catching her breath and wishing for the hundredth time that _she_ could pilot one of these things—she’d be much better at it than Tesman, she _knows_ it, “maybe you should keep your eyes on the monitor.”

“Ah—yes. Yes,” says Tesman, face slightly pink.

“As I was saying,” continues Hedda, “it’s beautiful. In fact, I’d love to live there someday.”

“Do you know, so would I,” replies Tesman.

The spacecraft heads through some minor turbulence, and Hedda closes her eyes. If she closes her eyes, she can pretend that there’s a different scholar beside her, someone she hasn’t seen for a long time. Better yet, she can pretend that there’s no one there at all. Just her, the newest possible starship model, and the wide expanses of space.

* * *

Nearly all the women she’d known in school have fulfilled their Divine Purpose, as the men call it. They don’t go to parties anymore. They’ve found their True Calling, their Way of Life, the real reason for existing as a woman in this miserable, backwards society. Once they’re married, they hardly ever even leave the surface of their home planets. Only the men do that.

Hedda wouldn’t have known that life for women was different in other sectors had it not been for the respected and admired general-father. Being the daughter of someone so famous has its perks, one of which is extra database access.

Sometimes she thinks it would have been better not to have been born so advantaged. Better to live life as a normal woman, better to have stayed away from all of that knowledge.

But no, no—she’s prettier and smarter and better at handling laser pistols than all of them combined. The respected and admired general-father had made sure of _that_.

* * *

Tesman gives her rides home from parties more and more often. After a while, Hedda grows to become quite familiar with the _Rina_.

One night, he proposes. She’d been expecting it. She’d known what would need to happen in order for her not to become perpetually trapped in the role of a social outcast.

She accepts, smiling, her smile too wide to be anything but forced. Tesman doesn’t notice; Tesman never notices the subtleties of nuanced social interaction.

“I’ll buy the entirety of Falk-78,” he’s saying, “since we both love it so much. It’ll be a stretch, financially, but it’s worth it for your sake. Uh?” Hedda only nods thickly, not willing to reveal her lie now that they’re engaged. Let him believe she loves it. Let him believe she loves _him_.

He chatters on and on about his plans for an extended research honeymoon (six _months_! surely he can’t be serious). Hedda only nods along wearily, suddenly exhausted.

* * *

“I’m so _glad_ my Georgie’s found someone to share his life with,” says Tesman’s elderly aunt (whose name Hedda can’t remember) after the wedding, pinching Hedda’s cheek much too forcefully. Hedda instinctively recoils; she’s never been fond of being touched, especially when the touch comes from people she barely knows. The respected and admired general-father had reserved physical affection for rare occasions, and Hedda’s always preferred things to be that way as well.

The aunt frowns a bit but doesn’t say anything about Hedda's conduct, instead asking, "Do the two of you have any plans?"

“Well,” says Hedda, wishing she were somewhere else, _anywhere_ else, “I think the plan is to go to the edges of the sector, to the more uninhabited areas—your nephew’s studying something or other out there.”

“Oh, yes, I knew that, dearie,” says the aunt, resting a hand on Hedda’s shoulder; she manages not to flinch away from the aunt this time but still tenses up. The aunt doesn’t seem to notice. “But I was wondering if you had any _other_ plans? After all, you’re going to live on Falk-78, and it’s a rather big planet—room for more than two, I suppose?”

Children.

She’s talking about children.

Hedda can’t bear to look at children for any longer than necessary. If she’s perfectly honest with herself, they’re terrifying. And the idea of having one, of physically giving _birth_ to a child, is even worse.

The world is suddenly very small; Hedda breathes in, breathes out, tries to focus on the question. “I—I suppose,” she finally says.

The aunt smiles, but to Hedda it’s more like a leer, a leer that says _you’re going to have his children, you know, there’s no way out of this_ , and Hedda wants to scream, to cry, to run away, but she doesn’t—people would talk.

She’d married—done all of this, lied about the stupid planet and everything—so she wouldn’t be trapped in a lower social circle. But in the end it hadn’t even mattered; she’s _still_ trapped, just in a different way.

When Tesman arrives, Hedda dully lets him lead her off to wherever it is he wants her to go. Maybe she’ll get used to being married. Maybe she’ll finally, finally feel like she has _some_ form of power in this miserable sector. Maybe this’ll end up being a good change for her.

It has to be.

It _has_ to be, or Hedda doesn’t know how she’ll survive this.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is a treat; the prompt was: _Could Hedda ever feel free? Would a different time or place or circumstance lessen her burdens, or would she still feel trapped by what she can not change?_ ; I saw "different time/place/circumstance" and immediately went SPACE AU, so...make of that what you will. Normally, I'm not a fan of sexism in sci-fi/space settings, but Hedda is someone that's very much shaped by her surroundings; without them I think she'd be completely unrecognizable as a character, so it seemed necessary in this case.
> 
> Sector 1890 gets its name (or number, I should say) from 1890, the year _Hedda Gabler_ was first published. The planet Falk-78 gets the "Falk" part of its name from the text—the mansion's called the Falk mansion, after its previous inhabitants—and "78" is the age Ibsen was when he died. 
> 
> Title comes from the beginning of Act 2 in the Rolf Fjelde-translated version (my personal favorite translation)—Judge Brack asks Hedda what she's shooting at, and Hedda replies, "Oh, I was just shooting into the sky". 
> 
> Thank you for reading!! :)


End file.
